crimsonvoid

Burned alive. Betrayed. Forgotten. Yet, from the depths of oblivion, he returns—his name erased, his past devoured by flames. What remains is something twisted, something reborn.

Vorynxis is no hero. He is no savior. He is a seeker of truth in a world built on lies. His path is paved with embers, his power a fire that burns not just flesh, but reality itself.

In a world where realms stack like pages of a never-ending story, where higher beings write destinies like ink on parchment, he is an anomaly—a flickering ember defying the grand design.

To ascend is to rewrite fate. To reach beyond is to invite madness. But Vorynxis does not fear the abyss. He is the abyss.

The world may try to silence him. The heavens may tremble. But in the end, all will burn to hollow ashes.

Hollow Ashes

The sky was black with the smoke of burning incense, thick with the scent of sanctified oils. A thousand cultivators stood in silent witness, their robes rustling in the cold night wind.

At the center of the grand execution platform, bound by Eternal Soul-Forging Chains, knelt Vorynxis—the traitor, the heretic, the condemned.

A towering elder, his face hidden behind a golden mask, raised his hand. His voice carried the weight of divine judgment.

"By the decree of the Seven Flames Sect, Vorynxis is to be erased. His body, his soul, his name—burned from the annals of existence."

The sect's greatest flames had been summoned for this moment. A fire that did not leave remains. A fire that burned beyond the flesh, beyond the soul.

The executioner stepped forward, summoning a Heavenly Flame, the ultimate punishment.

The moment the sacred fire manifested, the air itself cracked.

The flames did not roar. They did not flicker.

They hissed—a high, whispering sound, like something whispering beneath reality.

The temperature should have risen, but instead, a deep, biting cold spread outward, making even the elders shift uncomfortably.

Somewhere among the gathered disciples, a young one gagged. A faint, acrid scent, like burning blood, like something wrong, lingered at the edge of perception.

Then, the executioner brought the flame down.

Vorynxis vanished in a storm of burning light.

The fire consumed him, and in the instant before he disappeared, his blood-red eyes flickered—amusement? Relief? Something unreadable.

The executioner blinked. His pulse was too fast. Why?

The grand elder hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before stepping forward.

His throat felt dry. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, and for a brief, horrifying moment, he almost asked:

Instead, he forced himself to speak.

The wind blew. The fire faded. The sect watched.

The elders began to disperse. Some of the younger disciples whispered among themselves, unsure why a strange unease lingered. Then—

An elder frowned. "Who… did we just execute?"

The sect leader turned his head sharply. "What do you mean?"

The elder hesitated, then swallowed. His brows furrowed deeply. "I can't remember his name."

A flicker of confusion passed through the gathered elders. They searched their memories—and found nothing.

The grand elder's fingers curled ever so slightly at his side.

"You are mistaken," he said coldly. "There was no one."

The executioner's breath was ragged. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. He had burned someone. He was certain of it.

But the name, the face, the crime—it was slipping.

Something had erased it. Something unseen.

For the first time in history, an execution had taken place… and no one could recall who had died.

Chapter 1:The Execution